


and for every king that died, they would crown another

by secretly_a_savior



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Confrontations, Daddy Issues, M/M, Temper Tantrums, alexander is a whiny pissbaby, argument
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 04:34:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6456061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretly_a_savior/pseuds/secretly_a_savior
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a bit disconcerting, objectively, but he didn’t mind it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and for every king that died, they would crown another

**Author's Note:**

> fuck i am literally such trash for hamilton/anyone that walks the earth  
> literally kill me
> 
> once again, just a drabble, sorry. I'm working on something huge right now, I just hhhhhh
> 
> damn, paige, back at it again with the weird battlefield tent setting.   
> idk why i just... like it okay???  
> comment please

                A fist slamming on the table, spilt ink, grass flying off the tip of a boot. It was all normal sights and sounds for General George Washington, who had employed the young Alexander Hamilton as his secretary. Relatively young, at least, the man was 24 years Washington’s junior, not that that mattered. The way the war was going, they may as well all have been sitting _children._ Speaking of _children,_ Alexander’s behavior was unacceptable as it was.

                The two had a complicated relationship. More than employer and employee- more than friends. Nothing too serious though. Neither of them could _afford_ something **serious** anyway. They used each other in their own ways and that was the silent agreement. Still, Washington cared quite a bit for the younger man. Felt an _almost_ fatherly instinct towards him- even when he was kicking and screaming.

                “Calm down, son.” He offered, not wanting to get in the way of the destructive mess of a man that stood before him.

                “Stop that! Stop calling me that!”

                Washington sighed at the inevitable response and backed to sit in a small chair. The tent was large- large enough to fit some furniture. Enough for work to get done at least. A large table with room for maps and plans. A desk for Hamilton, a cot behind a sheet. It was nice- a solid base of operations that could get up and go when needed.

                He’d lost track of why Alexander was even upset at this point, but he sure was upset. _Enraged_ about something or other. He thought of more creative ways he could help the other with his anger but kept them suppressed. He wanted to get to the bottom of things this time. Wanted to be constructive.

                “This type of behavior is unbecoming for someone who wants so badly to be a _leader,_ Alexander.” He offered, his voice serious and steady, like a peg keeping him grounded.

                “Maybe this type of behavior wouldn’t arise if you _gave me a chance_.” Hamilton retorted, stopping his mad pacing and crossing his arms, facing the General.

                “I can’t do that. We n- _I_  need you alive.”

                “Why? Because I’m the only one that can copy your signature? Because you don’t want to pull another expendable footsoldier from the ranks to do your dirty work?”

                Washington straightened up- annoyed and almost hurt by the accusations. He cared about Alexander and he wasn’t going to let that fact slip. Lots of people cared about Alexander, actually. His wife, Laurens, Lafayette- even Burr seemed to have a soft spot for the man. He was a brilliant tactician, sure, but the general wasn’t sure what he’d do if he lost his right hand man.

                “Because your potential expands beyond dying for your country, son. While it’s admi-“

                “I told you to stop.” Alexander cut Washington off. His voice was level and quiet but it was anything but calm or dull. It was full of frustration and woe and rage. Real rage- not tantrum rage. Nothing Washington was used to, at any rate.

“Son, I-“  
  
“ _Stop calling me son!”_ The younger man’s reply came out loud and powerful, like he’d been holding it back- he was breathing heavily and glaring daggers at Washington, who wasn’t taken back in the slightest by the outburst. At the raise in volume, Washington straightened, trying to use his height to his advantage. He was 6”4’, he had nine inches on the other, who then straightened up further to try and seem more threatening. It was like a dachshund and a great dane going toe to toe.

                “I see you as a-“

                “No part of the way you _treat_ me is fatherly though. You don’t see me as a son because I’m not your son and I never will be now _stop._ I know what you’re playing at. The little games we play aren’t enough to anchor me, right? You want me to feel indebted to you- like I owe you something. I owe you in so far as you employ me. I owe you something in so far that occasionally you are a cure to my loneliness, but I owe you nothing for being a father figure.” He said, eloquent and loud and _important-_ as if presenting a new idea or giving a speech.

                “I never had a father, and I don’t _need_ a father to tell me what I am and what I can be. I don’t need someone else to explain my own damn potential. It’s insulting. Don’t patronize me and don’t try to make me into some goddamned success story. I’m not your son.”

                The general should’ve been offended- should’ve been upset with the _language_ that Alexander chose to express his thoughts, but he almost felt bad. He was using Alexander to fill a void where the other had no void. He stepped back momentarily, a hum leaving his throat as he tried to formulate an eloquent reply. The _general_ left him though. He became George Washington, friend and sometimes liason to Alexander Hamilton, the brilliant man with a fire in his eyes.

                He opened his mouth to speak but there were suddenly arms around him, and he returned the gesture, looking down at the other and frowning. A cacophony of ‘ _I’m sorry’_ s left Hamilton’s mouth and George shook his head. “It’s okay. I understand.”

                It was a lie. He didn’t understand the other at all. He didn’t understand anything about him- or the way they silently communicated. How they went from respectful colleagues to vulnerable friends at the same time- how they knew when the time and place was. It was a bit disconcerting, objectively, but he didn’t mind it.

They said that great men thought alike anyway.


End file.
